Unfortunately, the words were only in his head. He could barely draw enough strength to mutter them, much less raise his voice to a level she could possibly hear. See, the mathematics for blood loss was real simple. The more you lost, the weaker you became. And that kind of arithmetic meant he had to act fast. While he still could. He had to draw the gunman’s fire.
Pushing to his good knee, he reached up with a slick, blood-soaked hand to grab the truck’s rusting side view mirror. His body was a giant, burning ball of agony. His heart skittered and missed beats. His punctured, bleeding lung struggled valiantly to rake in oxygen, all while his brain, deprived of said oxygen, grew dull and fuzzy.
But he couldn’t give in yet. He couldn’t give in until—
With a choking cry, he hauled himself to his feet. The world around him dimmed and flickered, then condensed down to nothing but that dark SUV and the gunman hiding behind the open door, peeking around to once again return fire.
“Over h—” cough, cough, cough. Hot blood poured down his chin and tasted like rusting iron on his tongue. He could smell it. Its metallic aroma tunneled into his nose, and he briefly flashed back to that time in Afghanistan when he arrived on the scene of a brutal roadside bombing to see bloody, shredded bodies littering the street. Death had been imminent then. Death was imminent now. But first…“Over here!” he finally managed to garble.
The gunman peeked his head out from behind the door, and blue eyes, familiar blue eyes, narrowed on Bill.
Jesus Christ! Buchanan? What the hell? Why?
He saw the shiny, silver gun in Buchanan’s hand twitch, saw the evil black eye of the barrel focus on him. He squeezed his lids shut, waiting…waiting for the round that would take him out. But it wasn’t a bullet that slammed into him, flattening him to the ground. It was Eve.
He was flat on his back on the hard pavement, pain wracking him from head to toe. Still, he had no trouble seeing Eve’s beautiful, beloved face when she frantically pushed away, looming above him.
“Billy!” she cried when she saw the mess that was his chest. “Oh, God, Billy! Oh, God!”
She desperately pressed a hand over the gushing wound, but he knew it was useless. And if the terror on her face was anything to go by, she knew it was useless, too.
“Sh-shh,” he soothed her, coughing wetly, struggling to breathe, struggling to tell her this last thing before death came to claim him. “L-listen to m-me.” His voice was a garbled wreck, but she must’ve understood him because she quieted, her watery, red eyes intent on his face as her breath sawed from her lungs. “I love you, t-too.”
“Don’t you say that!” she wailed, bringing up her gun hand to wipe her runny nose on the back of her wrist. Then she whipped her T-shirt over her head, wadding it up and pressing it to the center of his chest. “You’re only saying that because you think this is good-bye! It’s not good-bye! Billy, it’s not—”
“It’s J-Jeremy,” he gurgled, watching her face pale. Her eyes flew wide. She shook her head in denial. He nodded and saw her throat work over a hard sob as realization dawned. “It’s Jeremy. He—”
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
Bullets riddled the truck, and Eve jumped up to return fire. Bam! Bam! Then she squatted back down behind the wheel well, and he lamented the fact that he couldn’t help her. He couldn’t move. He’d used the last of his strength to stand and draw Buchanan’s fire. But maybe—no, there was no maybe about it—he would hold on long enough to get her through this. To give her an edge…
“Get him to talk,” he instructed through the blood that just kept filling his mouth over and over again no matter how much he swallowed or spit. She glanced down at him, her face so frightened, so very frightened, and oh, how he wished he could offer her some sort of comfort. But all he could offer her in these minutes, his last minutes, was his expertise, the hard lessons he’d learned from years on the battlefield.
“Get him t-to come out and—” He was nearly ripped apart by the next round of wet, ragged coughing, his mutilated lung struggling against all odds to continue to draw breath. The human body was amazing that way. It clung to life with sharp, jagged nails, fought for survival even in the midst of searing, mind-bending pain. “Get him to make a mistake,” he was finally able to finish.
He saw her swallow and nod. Then she lifted her chin and cried, “J-Jeremy?” Her voice was a rough parody of itself.
Silence met her call. Then, Jeremy finally bellowed, his tone that of a madman, “Why couldn’t you just fucking die?”
Bill watched Eve’s face cave in on itself, and for a brief moment he was afraid that the depth and breadth of her sorrow and betrayal might kill her quicker than any of Buchanan’s bullets. Then she squeezed her lids closed and dragged in a couple of shuddering breaths before opening her eyes and calling, “Why? Why are you doing this? Did Dad and Blake put you up to it?”
“Ha!” Jeremy yelled back. “Your father and ex-husband wouldn’t dare kill you. They fucking love you to pieces! Everyone fucking loves you to pieces! Even my own mother loved you best!”
“G-good,” Bill sputtered, struggling to keep his buzzing brain on the conversation, waiting for the one piece of the puzzle that would give Eve the upper hand. “Keep g-going.”
Eve nodded, rolling in her lips as tears streamed down her face. “Wh-what are you talking about, J-Jeremy?” she cried, her chest shuddering. “Your mother adored you!”
Even Bill could hear Buchanan’s snort. “Yeah. She adored me so much she drank and gambled and flitted her entire goddamn inheritance away! She left me next to nothing, Eve! Nothing!”
“J-Jeremy, I—”
“Shut up!”
She snapped her mouth closed, sobbing uncontrollably as she tried to apply more pressure to the wound on Bill’s chest. He wanted to tell her it was useless, not to worry about it. But he needed to save his breath and his words for more important things.
“T-tell him,” he coughed. The pain was less. And while that felt good, in reality it was bad. Very, very bad. Pain equaled life in this little equation. “Tell him you’ll give him your m-money,” cough, “if he throws his weapon a-away.” Each word was a struggle. Each syllable a goddamn uphill battle.
Eve nodded, tears streaming unchecked down her face. She lifted her chin to do as he instructed.
Buchanan’s response was to riddle the truck with more bullets. Not that Bill should be surprised. Buchanan couldn’t back down now. He’d killed Bill—was that a movie? His sluggish neurons appeared to be misfiring. Then, the tire beside Eve exploded with a loud bloof followed by a thin, high-pitched whistle. Eve lifted the Glock over her head, angled it over the hood of the truck, and blindly returned fire. Bam! Bam! Click! Click!
And those last two sounds, the sounds of an empty clip, stopped Bill’s heart. Oh, God, Eve! No! No!
“Run!” he managed to garble. It was the only chance she had. Not a good chance. But still a chance.
“I won’t leave you.” She smiled sadly through her tears, scooting down until her back was supported by the blown tire and her long legs were stretched out in front of her. With gentle hands, she lifted his head into her lap.
“No.” He swallowed more blood. Black spots invaded his vision. “Run.”
“Shhh.” She ran her fingers through his hair. He could barely feel it. Oh, how he wished he could feel it.
“You’re out of ammo, Eve!” Buchanan called, tears of hysteria tainting his voice, the sound of his footsteps coming closer. “But I promise you I’m going to make this quick. I do love you, you know?” And Bill still had just enough faculties left to realize the man was shithouse crazy. And one hell of an actor. He’d fooled them all. “But I have to look out for myself! I’ve always had to look out for myself! You wouldn’t understand what it’s like to—”
Bill stopped listening because he felt something cool press against his shoulde
r. He slid his eyes to the side. And even though his vision was almost completely shot, he recognized the outline of his snubbie.
He choked on a sob of relief. And then there was only one piece of advice he had left to give her. “Don’t hesitate.”
He felt her nod more than he saw it. And he heard her throat stick when she swallowed.
As the sound of footsteps loomed louder, closer, he tried not to cough, tried not to wheeze, tried to keep as quiet as possible so Eve could hear the instant Jeremy rounded the front of the truck.
And then, it happened. He felt Eve’s arm jerk up, heard the subtle click of the trigger right before a shot echoed out over the parking lot. It was followed immediately by a second. Then, silence…
He couldn’t see what had happened. There was nothing but blackness now. But, in the next instant, he heard Eve drop the pistol to the ground, felt her lean over him as she was wracked by hard, wet sobs, and he knew. It was over. She’d won.
Relief slid through him on a warm, golden wave. Relief and love and…acquiescence.
Shh, he wanted to tell her when her hot tears fell on his face, when her cries rang in his ears. It’s okay, now. I love you, and you’re going to be okay. But he’d lost the ability to speak. The Reaper was close now. He could feel the bastard. Could feel him pulling and tugging. And when the distant sound of sirens reached his ears, accompanied by the gentle mutter of an overhead helicopter, he knew she was safe.
So…he let go…
Chapter Twenty-six
Northwestern Memorial Hospital
Friday, 3:03 p.m.
He wasn’t dead…
There were times since he first regained consciousness yesterday when the pain was so intense he wished he was dead. But then he’d look over at Eve in the armchair beside his bed—he’d been told by the night nurse that she hadn’t left his side since the moment he came out of surgery—and he’d remember just how much he had to live for.
Eve…Beautiful, courageous, wonderful Eve…
She loved him, and he loved her, and as soon as he got out of this goddamned hospital bed, he was going to show her just how much he loved her. Show her again and again. In very inventive and enthusiastic ways. A smiled curved his lips just thinking of it. Because if that wasn’t enough to have him happily suffering through the pain—if thoughts of getting Eve naked and sweaty wasn’t reason enough to fight to heal—then he didn’t know what was.
He glanced over now, expecting to find her curled up sleeping or reading. But she wasn’t there. Instead his sister Becky was sitting cross-legged in the chair, frowning at the screen of her cell phone, her fingers fiddling with the end of the blonde ponytail draped over her shoulder. His eyes darted to the couch at the far end of the room. But Eve wasn’t there either. It was his brother-in-law, the esteemed leader of BKI. Frank “Boss” Knight had stretched his significant bulk out on the sofa, his big biker boots were dangling over the arm, and he was flipping through the latest issue of American Rider.
Bill moved his hand, trying to get Becky’s attention. Then he remembered, vaguely, through the hazy cloud of delicious, delicious pain meds, that he’d been taken off the ventilator earlier. So, he could actually talk. Licking his lips, he opened his mouth and asked, “Where’s Eve?”
Or at least that’s what he tried to say. In all reality, it sounded more like, “Wheh Eh?” followed by a series of painful, wheezing coughs.
And damn his throat hurt like he’d been swallowing glass, not to mention his mouth was so dry he wondered if they’d been packing the sucker with gauze for some inexplicable reason. Becky’s head jerked up, and she jumped to her feet. Boss catapulted himself from the sofa with a grace that was shocking for such a big man.
“Billy!” Becky squealed, grabbing his hand. “My God! You’re talking!”
Yeah, if two incomprehensible syllables counted as “talking.” Naturally, he’d probably be able to do a little better if his mouth wasn’t so goddamned dry. Licking his lips, he tried again. Only this time, he said, “Wah-tah.”
He frowned, wondering if that was at all understandable. Then, he smiled in victory when Becky reached for a clear pitcher. She poured some water into a cup, inserted a straw, and held it to his lips. He sucked greedily. It was heaven. The water was cool and delicious, and it soothed his burning throat. When he’d downed the last of it, the straw made a slurping sound against the bottom of the cup, and he said, “More.”
And this time—yippee!—the word actually came out sounding completely comprehensible.
“No,” Becky told him, shaking her head, setting the cup aside. He looked at it with longing. “The doctor says you’re not supposed to drink too fast or too much. I’ll give you another cup in ten minutes. “
He shifted his gaze to her, scowling.
She scowled right back, planting her hands on her jean-clad hips, and sticking her tongue in her cheek. “And you can wipe that look right off your face, mister,” she harrumphed. “You scared the shit out of me, out of all of us. So, my patience with you is at an all-time low.”
He grinned, shaking his head against the pillow. “Love you,” he croaked, and her expression softened. She brushed her fingers through his hair and bent to kiss his forehead. She smelled like she always smelled, a strange combination of woman and mechanic, all flowery with just a hint of motor oil. When she straightened away, he cleared his throat and glanced down at the foot of the bed.
Boss was standing there with a big ol’ smile splitting his face. It caused the scar cutting up from the corner of his lips to pull tight. “Save your breath,” Boss said. “I know you love me, too.”
Bill chuckled, but it turned into a series of coughs that had Becky squeezing his fingers and going back on what she’d just said. She held the straw on a fresh cup of water to his lips. As he sucked the cool, soothing liquid down into his burning throat, he grinned up at her triumphantly.
“Don’t go thinking you’ve found my weak spot. That trick will only work once,” she told him, pursing her lips.
When the water was gone, he asked, “Where’s Eve?”
“She needed to stretch her legs, so we sent her on a coffee run,” Boss informed him. “She should be back soon.”
And knowing she was going to come through that door at any minute sent warmth fizzing through his veins. Or maybe that was just the drugs. The delicious, delicious drugs. For a moment, he thought he drifted, then the memory of those last few seconds out in the parking lot at Harbor View Marina dragged him back to reality.
“Jeremy Buchanan?” he asked, glancing first at his sister, then at Boss.
Boss shook his head. “Dead on the scene. Two shots. Center mass.”
Bill swallowed. “Is she…Is Eve okay?”
Neither Boss nor Becky answered him, and a hard lump of apprehension settled in the center of his chest. Then, Becky finally admitted, “She’s handling it pretty well. But it’s tough. Buchanan was like a brother to her.”
He nodded against the pillow, still having trouble believing what’d happened, why it’d happened. Frowning, he posed the question aloud.
“It’s a convoluted story from what the police have been able to piece together after scouring his condo from top to bottom,” his sister grimaced. Boss mirrored her expression, his big, craggy face filled with disgust. “But the short version of the story goes something like this…His mother, Eve’s aunt, was a bit of a party girl. She liked to spend money as opposed to investing it. Apparently, she blew through her inheritance and the portion of a trust fund her parents left her. So, when she died, Jeremy discovered he was a trust-fund baby minus one trust fund. Then,” Becky sucked in a breath and continued, “when Eve’s father started up his business with Blake, he invited Jeremy to come in as a junior partner. But Jeremy didn’t have the capital to put down. So he borrowed the money from some big time gang lord he allegedly met while working vic
e. He promised the gangster a big payoff. But as you know, the business failed, and he was left owing a lot of money to one very nasty individual.”
Becky reached into her hip pocket, pulled out an orange Dum-Dum lollipop, and peeled back the wrapper. Shoving the sucker in her cheek, she opened her mouth to continue, and Bill didn’t know if it was drugs talking but all he could think was…this is the short version of the story?
“So unless Jeremy wanted to find his knee caps busted, or take a bullet to the brain, or get himself fitted for cement galoshes, or whatever it is gangsters do to their enemies,” Becky talked around the head of the sucker, “he needed to find a way to pay the guy back. In comes Eve’s portion of the family trust fund. The document apparently stipulates that if Eve dies without an heir…” She frowned. “Heir. I swear, every time I say that word or even think it, I feel like I should be twirling a parasol and having a spot of tea.” Boss snorted, and she shook her head as if she needed the physical inducement to jangle her thoughts back in order. “Anyway, if Eve dies without offspring, her portion of the trust fund reverts back to her closest, living relative from her mother’s side of the family. Jeremy.” She blew out a breath. “And there you have it.”
There he had it, indeed. His mind was swimming. It was like something from daytime soap opera. But there was something…missing. A misplaced piece of the puzzle that niggled at the back of his brain. He narrowed his eyes and tried to focus on it, but it flitted away. Then, in a flash, he had it.
“Wait.” He had to clear his throat when the word croaked out of him like he was a friggin’ bullfrog or something. “But how did he know Eve was at the bar? It was her father who called that night.”
Becky made a face, crunching down on the sucker and chewing loudly while simultaneously answering. “Eve texted him. She’d forgotten about it what with all the hullabaloo surrounding her father and ex-husband. It wasn’t until everything was coming out in the wash that she even remembered doing it.”
“Which is why he made the point of telling Eve she needed to leave her phone as evidence,” he mused aloud, remembering Buchanan’s last words to Eve before they’d gone to confront her father. “He wanted to make sure he got his hands on it in order to delete the text.”
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